by Gigi Fenster
After a while David says, ‘I wish they could have got some information from the phone. Like who she called last. Like whether she tried calling for help.’
Your hand on the dashboard. Keep looking at it.
‘Wouldn’t you be able to retrieve the information?’ David says. ‘Isn’t that what you do?’ Then he says, ‘No, I guess not. Especially if the electronics are shot. Water does that to cell phones. Still, I wish the phone could have given us more information.’
Morris manages to speak. ‘Just finding it is information. It would tell the searchers a lot, just finding it.’
Don’t ask what it would tell the searchers, thinks Morris. Don’t make us think about where they found it. Downstream and wet and caught on a rock.
‘I guess them finding it is what you’d call the metadata.’
Not quite, thinks Morris, but he says, ‘I guess it is.’
Extra searchers, says God. Ha—like a few more ants will make a difference in the landslides I am this very minute letting loose. Ha!
The windscreen wipers are furious. David aims the car at the rain like a soldier with a bayonet. Like he’s running into no man’s land. They are submerged.
God says, And as for you two—you toy soldiers in your dinky car. I might cover you both in ice. For ever.
Debbie calls. Morris holds the phone up to David’s ear so he can talk to Emma. David raises his voice to be heard above the noise of the rain. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘Babyface,’ and, ‘Give your mum a giant kiss for me. A giant sloppy wet kiss.’
Morris repeats the words to himself like a prayer.
David has to say, ‘I’m done,’ three times before his father takes the phone away from his ear and snaps it shut.
After a while the rain drops off. It’s quieter, and David sits back in his seat. He takes one hand off the wheel to rub his shoulder. ‘How about some of that coffee Wendy packed? Can you reach it?’
Morris reaches to the back seat to get the thermos flask, steadies himself and carefully pours a few mouthfuls of coffee into the wide plastic cup.
Sadie always poured just a few mouthfuls. Enough so it was satisfying but not so much that it could do any damage if it spilled. Not that it ever spilled. She wouldn’t let that happen. She kept a hand hovering, ready to take the cup on the slightest signal. Like a pianist’s page-turner playing along in her head.
Sadie’s car coffee tasted of plastic, but Morris liked it anyway.
In all the years of their driving together they didn’t spill a single drop.
He says, ‘Your mother always liked having a flask of something in the car when we went on a journey.’
‘I know.’ David sips on his coffee.
Morris lifts a hand so David will know that he’s ready to take the cup.
‘You know how people have car-journey memories?’ says David. ‘I’ll tell you mine. You’re driving. Mum is screwing the lid off a thermos flask. She’s got a school lunchbox on her lap with sandwiches in it.’
‘Cheese and jam sandwiches.’
‘Jam and peanut butter.’
‘We used to have coffee after the sandwich.’
‘Rachel and I had those square school water bottles with the plastic lids. Mum used to pass the sandwiches back and let us choose.’
‘Sometimes she packed fruit.’
‘Unless we were going to Levin. If we were going to Levin we used to stop for fruit on the way.’
‘Going to Levin.’
‘To see Aunty Joanie and Uncle Norman.’
‘You don’t remember going to Levin to see Joan and Norman.’
‘Sure I do. I loved those visits.’
‘But you must’ve been, what, four or five when they left.’
‘I guess, but not so young that I can’t remember being spoiled rotten. Cakes, presents, lollies. What’s to forget?’
Morris says nothing.
‘Cakes, presents, lollies and puppies.’ David continues. ‘Joanie really knew the way to a kid’s heart. What kid isn’t won over by cakes, presents, lollies and puppies? I remember sleeping over there. Norman made scrambled eggs.’
‘Scrambled eggs out of the frying pan.’
‘Hey, that’s right. They were out of the frying pan. How did you know? And Joanie read a story that went on and on and on.’
Morris is emboldened by his success with the frying pan. ‘Was it about a princess frozen under ice?’
‘A princess frozen under ice? Could have been. I can’t remember.’
David hands Morris his coffee cup.
When everyone had eaten, Sadie used to rest her head against the car door. She could be quiet for ages on a car trip, gazing out the window.
There is nothing but rain and wind outside the window. Morris closes his eyes.
‘Joanie used to read to us for hours,’ says David. ‘I remember thinking that parents’ stories were short but aunts’ stories were really long. Isn’t it funny how you can have insights as a five-year-old and not even know they’re insights? Parents’ stories are short and aunts’ stories are long. Aunts don’t skip bits when they’re reading to you.’
Joe’s stories weren’t short. Joe’s stories went on for as long as Morris stayed awake, as long as Pearl would allow. Sometimes beyond. Joe’s stories could go on for days.
Joe’s stories had hunters who lived for weeks in the bush without seeing another human being, without taking a bath, without shaving. Their beards grew wild and full of twigs. Their whiskers almost covered their eyes. Joe’s stories had giant birds that taunted the hunters and lived in secret places. They ran ahead of the men, luring them deeper and deeper into the bush, further and further into the dark. Joe’s stories had flooded rivers and thrashing rain and horses which galloped faster than their jockey who fell in a pile in the bedclothes. Sometimes his stories had pretty girls whose kicking legs cut through the sky like scissors.
Joe’s stories didn’t stop even when Pearl said, ‘You’ll frighten the boy.’ They didn’t stop when she removed Morris from his father and took him to bed, muttering about getting the child all worked up before bedtime and how was she supposed to get him to sleep when he’d been over-excited? Hadn’t she already told Joe it was supposed to be Morris’s quiet time?
Joe had a story about a soldier who travelled across the world to fight a terrible monster. Everywhere he went he heard tales of the monster’s teeth as large as chimneys, and of the ashes and smoke which trailed behind it. There were holes in the earth where the monster had taken bites, cracks in the land, burning crevices. Whole towns collapsed into ash.
The soldier ran across the burning land, searching for his enemy, but the monster was always ahead of him, always out of reach. He encountered some of the monster’s henchmen and fought them in bloody battles. With each victory he became braver and prouder. I am invincible, he told himself. I’m not scared of a stupid strutting monster. Come and get me with your terrible teeth.
Until the day when the monster turned around and looked him full in the face and the soldier saw that it wasn’t the teeth he had to fear. It was the eyes. In that moment he lost all his bravery. He stepped backwards without checking what was behind him. He was so scared that … so scared that …
Pearl swooped on her son, lifted him from his father’s knee.
‘You’ll give him nightmares with stories like that. He’s only six years old. And anyway, anyway, it’s time for bed. You two have an early start tomorrow. Come on, Morris, we need to get you out of those shorts and into pyjamas.’
Joe shifted in his chair and kept on telling his story. To himself.
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Gee, I’ve got you well trained.
Gee, I’ve got you well trained who?
No, no, I meant … forget it. Knock knock.
What now?
Oh, forget it. You were standing outside your parents’ room.
Outside my parents’ room.
You were about to o
pen the door.
It wasn’t the shorts which woke Morris. It was a nightmare about a monster with smoking teeth.
The nightmare has woken him and the shorts have scratched him and he has walked down the passage to his parents’ room. To his parents’ door which is closed.
He pauses at the door.
Open the door, Morris.
He’s not supposed to go into his parents’ room.
Open the door Morris.
But he’s six years old and alone and reckless. His own worst enemy. He turns the handle and opens the door.
My God, all this drama. Sometimes you can be so dramatic, Morris.
Me? Dramatic? But you’re the one who—
Oh no you don’t. Don’t turn this on me. We’re talking about you now. You with your hand on the door like a kid in an old-fashioned horror movie. Get on with it.
But you keep—
Just get on with it.
At six years old Morris climbed out of bed and went down the passage to his parents’ door which was closed.
He paused at the door.
He was not supposed to go into his parents’ room and yet he put his hand on the handle, turned it and opened the door.
Morris’s mother had her back to him. She was wearing a long nightie and she had a bright red scarf over her head.
‘Mum, Mum.’
She was talking into the telephone and all around her there was mess. Piles of clothes all over the floor. A chair knocked over. Drawers leaking. Clothes spilling out of the wardrobe. A chest of drawers with a gaping mouth where a drawer should be. Papers thrown around, some of them crumpled, and there, on the floor at Morris’s feet, a map. Morris looked around the room for his father. He looked at the bed and saw a pile and thought, There he is, he’s still here, he hasn’t gone without me. But he knew that he was looking at a pile of clothes. He knew that his father had gone, had left for the tramp without him.
And he knew whose fault it was.
His mother was supposed to have woken him. She should have run down the passage and shaken him from his bed and said, ‘Quickly, Morris. Jump out of bed. Off you go. Your father is leaving. Run, Morris, run.’ She should have stopped Joe. She should have stood at the door and said, ‘Wait, wait for the boy. He’s been so looking forward to this. He’ll be there in a minute. Wait for him. Wait.’ She should not have been talking on the telephone.
Morris looks at his mother’s back. It’s all her fault and Morris is burning and screaming and banging on her legs. He’s shouting and crying. He’s pulling her nightie, shouting that she shouldn’t have let him go. It’s all her fault. All her fault. And now she’s turning and facing him. She’s bending down towards him. Her face is white and blank. Her eyes are red and her mouth is red and opening and shouting that he shouldn’t have opened the door. He should have knocked. Who does he think he is? She’s shouting that he’s just like his father, can’t control himself. Can’t do as he’s supposed to do. Can’t for once just do the right thing. She’s holding him by the shoulders and shaking him. She’s yelling, ‘Upped and left. He’s upped and left. Taken his backpack. Taken his clothes and gone.’ She’s shouting, ‘Good riddance. Bad rubbish.’ And holding Morris’s shoulders, putting her face close to his. There’s spit in her voice. Her head is swollen and bumpy under its scarf. She’s a screaming monster with leaking eyes, shouting, ‘Stop your crying. Just stop. Your shrieking and your crying. Stop. Stop.’ Hurting his shoulders with her fingernails, and shaking him and shouting, ‘Shut up. Shut up. Just shut up.’
Morris closes his eyes and is terrified.
He squeezes his eyes so the crying will stop, holds his breath so the crying will stop, and hears, from somewhere behind his mother’s whimpering, a small voice saying, ‘Morris, Morris is that you?’
The phone is dangling off the table. Norman’s voice is both tiny and shouting. ‘Morris, Morris, is that you? Morris, come and pick up the receiver. Talk to me.’
Morris opens his eyes. His mother drops her hands and sags into a pile on the floor. Her scarf has slipped. There are small spikes on her head. She’s melting into a pile of clothes on the floor and Norman’s tiny voice is shouting through the receiver, ‘Morris, come here straight away. Come and talk to me before you do a-ny-thing else.’
So Morris picks up the receiver. He tries to say, ‘Hello, this is Morris talking,’ but he’s hiccupping and sucking in air. The receiver is wet.
There is a deep sigh from the other end. ‘Oh thank God.’ Another sigh. ‘Okay Morris, I need you to be a big boy now and listen to me very, very carefully.’
‘Norman.’
‘Don’t worry, big boy. I’m here. I need you to be a brave boy and stop crying. Stop crying and tell me what you see.’
‘Mummy’s on the floor.’
‘Good boy. What else?’
‘Norman, she … Norman.’
‘I know big boy. I know. Tell me what else you see.’
‘Her head is all bumpy. There are prickles.’
‘That’s right. You clever boy. Now listen to me very, very carefully. Keep on listening to me. Take a deep breath, hold your tears and listen to me.’
And so Norman, sweet Uncle Norman of the pen-stained pockets, talked Morris through the process of fetching his mother a glass of water. ‘She didn’t mean to shout at you. She’s just upset. Those aren’t prickles on her head, they’re curlers. They can’t hurt you or her, I promise. Don’t worry about the clothes on the floor. We’ll tidy up later.’
Comforted him when his mother stirred, ‘She’s not cross with you, big boy. She just got a little fright when the door opened. Just a little fright. That’s all.’
Talked him through giving her water and helping her to straighten a chair and sit in it. ‘Wasn’t your mummy silly to shout like that just because of a little fright? Aren’t adults silly making such a mess in the room?’
Told him that he was an excellent young man, that he should give the receiver back to his mother and go back to sleep. Told him not to worry about where his father was or whether they’d go tramping tomorrow. Told him not to think about the tramping, rather to think about Mrs Pierce from next door who would be there any minute now.
Norman, sweet Norman who step by step, instruction by instruction, talked Morris into some kind of order, gave his mind something to hold on to. Conjured up Mrs Pierce from down the road in her dressing gown and slippers.
Norman, sweet Norman who said, ‘Morris, big boy, best not to mention your father. Or tramping. It’ll only upset your mother again, and we don’t want to do that, do we?’
And Joan, dear Joan who laid a mattress for Morris on the floor beside her bed, who read him an endless story about a princess asleep beneath a sheet of ice. And about the tall prince who kissed her. The prince wore a heavy coat and fur-covered boots. His long beard kept out the cold. His boat pushed through the snow to the land where all was ice. ‘And the prince’s horse went galloping, galloping, melting the ice and bringing spring.’
The next day she bought him toys and cooked his favourite foods. ‘Your mother is upset because your father’s gone away for a while. But she’ll be better soon and your dad will come home soon and then you’ll go home. And in the meantime you and your mummy will stay here with me and Uncle Norman. Because we love you. And Morris, don’t ask your mother about your father. Don’t ask her anything. She’s fragile, your mother. Like a delicate glass. She can break easily.’
When Pearl was well enough to go home, Joan spent the morning helping her move the furniture around while Morris played with his new toy car.
They swapped the bedroom and the lounge. They separated the two single beds and put one in the basement. Morris didn’t ask where his father would sleep when he came back.
Dear Uncle Norman whose voice was on the other end of the phone, saying, ‘Morris, big boy, when I’m finished talking I want you to put the phone back on the receiver and go to your room. Go back to sleep. I know you’re not going to
start crying again because you’re a big brave boy. I know you’re not going to mention your father or the tramping because you’re a good boy who doesn’t want to upset his mother. A good boy doesn’t upset his mother.’
Norman who put a blanket around his mother and bent over her while he led her to his car, as if she was his child.
Norman who ruffled Morris’s head, and said, ‘Your Aunty Joan and I have had a lovely idea. Why don’t you and your mum come and stay with us for a few days? Joanie’s got some great new toy cars for you. Boy oh boy a Lincoln Toy.’
Morris wanted to tell Norman that he couldn’t go to Levin, he had to wait at home. He had to be there when his father came home. They were going tramping. Only the two of them. Man and man. He was dressed and ready to go. His father had an axe. But if he tried to speak he’d start crying again, and Norman didn’t want that. And there was a monster ready to turn and face him and there was a marble stuck in his throat. He didn’t know where his father was and the marble was growing and growing and could explode in his brain.
Norman who took him home to Aunty Joan, gave him hot chocolate to drink, knelt down in front of him and said, ‘Morris, brave boy, take off the shorts.’
Norman who lied to Morris. Lied about his mother being fine and lied about his father coming back soon, about him just needing a bit of a break and coming back soon. Lied about all that. Even though Morris let Mrs Pierce into the house like Norman said, even though he went back to bed like Norman said, and closed his eyes when Mrs Pierce told him to. Even though he didn’t mention his father. Or tramping. Even though he was a good boy who didn’t cry or upset his mother any more.
And that, as they say in the classics, was that.
Classics?
Bedroom tidied. Rooms changed. Bed in the basement. Just you and your mother. Listening to the radio and sometimes spending a day in Levin. And I suppose that some time, somewhere along the line, you stopped waiting for your father to come home.
